THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


V/7  v 

^^^L^«^JL 


BOOK  TREASURES 

OF 

JVLECENAS 

BY 
JOHN  PAUL  BOCOCK 


flew  Korft 

Ube  "fcnicfterbocfeer  press 
1904 


COPYRIGHT  1904 

BY 

CAROLINE  R.  BOCOCK 


PS 


POEMS 

BY 

JOHN  PAUL  BOCOCK 

DEDICATED   TO   HIS   CHILDREN 

BY 
THEIR   MOTHER 


IN  MEMORIAM 

1TJAREWELL!  since  never  more  for  thee 
±        The  sun  comes  up  our  eastern  skies ; 
Less  bright  henceforth  shall  sunshine  be 
To  some  fond  hearts  and  saddened  eyes. 

There  are  who  for  thy  last  long  sleep 
Shall  sleep  as  sweetly  never  more ; 

Shall  weep  because  thou  canst  not  weep, 
And  grieve  that  all  thy  griefs  are  o'er. 

Sad  thrift  of  love!  the  loving  breast 
On  which  the  aching  head  was  thrown 

Gave  up  the  weary  head  to  rest 
But  kept  the  aching  for  its  own." 


448033 


JOHN  PAUL  Bo  COCK,  who  died  in  Wayne,  Penn- 
sylvania, on  the  seventeenth  of  June,  in  a  cottage  in 
which,  he  wrote  a  friend  three  months  ago,  he  had 
expected  "to  spend  some  happy  days,"  was  a  man  of 
singularly  fine  taste  and  of  unusual  attainments.  Born 
and  educated  in  the  capital  of  the  Old  Dominion, 
where  his  family  had  long  been  prominent  in  political 
and  social  circles,  he  brought  with  him  to  his  work  in 
the  North  the  best  elements  of  Southern  culture.  For 
many  years  he  labored  successfully  in  journalism, 
having  been  connected  editorially  with  several  of  the 
leading  papers  of  Philadelphia  and  New  York.  His 
talents  were  of  the  most  versatile  nature,  his  contribu- 
tions to  the  periodicals,  which  were  numerous,  com- 
prising stories,  essays,  and  articles  on  a  great  variety 
of  subjects,  and  poetry  of  an  excellent  quality.  His 
writings  even  on  commonplace  topics  bore  the  marks 
vii 


of  literary  purpose  and  effort.  All  through  his  career, 
he  was  deeply  influenced  by  a  love  for  the  classics,  and 
there  were  not  many  men  in  the  country  who  out- 
ranked him  as  a  Horatian  scholar.  He  has  left  behind 
him  one  of  the  largest  collections  in  the  world  of  edi- 
tions of  his  favorite  Latin  poet,  which  he  gathered  from 
all  quarters.  Personally,  he  was  of  the  most  lovable 
character,  and  possessed  of  a  happy  faculty  of  humor 
which  enabled  him  to  make  light  even  of  the  dire  pain 
and  distress  of  the  long  and  severe  illness  which  brought 
his  bright  and  useful  life  prematurely  to  an  end. 

GEORGE  HARVEY. 
Harper's  Weekly,  July  4,  1903. 


viii 


Acknowledgment  is  due  to  the  publishers  of  the  following 
periodicals  for  their  courteous  permission  to  reprint  certain 
of  the  poems  contained  in  this  volume :  Scribner's  Magazine, 
The  Critic,  Leslie's  Weekly,  The  Reader,  Truth,  Town  Topics, 
New  York  Tribune,  New  York  Sun,  New  York  World,  and 
The  Boston  Globe. 


THE  BOOK  TREASURES  OF  MAECENAS 

/^  OLDEN  Gospels  of  King  Henry, 
vj     Writ  in  uncials  of  gold 
On  the  vellum's  royal  purple, 

By  the  cloistered  scribes  of  old, — 
In  these  pages  Kings  and  sages 

For  a  thousand  years  have  pondered 
On  the  Book  that  still  is  deathless 

When  the  gold  of  earth  is  squandered. 

How  a  splendid,  patient  cunning 

Decked  "the  Romance  of  the  Rose!" 
In  clear  gold  and  gorgeous  colors 

Every  page  immortal  glows ; 
Charles  the  Ninth  has  pored  upon  them, 

But  no  trace  of  cruel  fingers 
Mars  the  fair  leaves  where  the  fragrance 

Of  the  rose  of  love  still  lingers. 

Shade  of  Gutenberg,  bear  witness 

To  the  Bible  twice  immortal : 
First  and  fairest  book  imprinted, 

Lamp  that  guides  to  Heaven's  portal; 

i 


THE  BOOK   TREASURES  OF  MAECENAS 

Fust  and  Schoeffer,  fit  companion 

To  the  Bible  is  your  Psalter, 
"Grandest  treasure  ever  offered 

Upon  learning's  holy  altar." 

Here  the  1470  Virgil 

Shows  his  face  illuminated; 
Here  the  Doge's  vellum  Livy 

Tintoretto-decorated, 
And  St.  Augustine,  on  vellum, — 

Men  would  die  for  one  such  treasure,— 
Stand  with  rows  of  priceless  Caxtons 

Waiting  on  Maecenas'  pleasure. 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN 

SWEET  as  she  sat  in  the  twilight  dim 
Echoed  the  strains  of  her  Christmas  hymn, 
Swelling  soft  through  the  cozy  gloom 
And  the  wreathed  grace  of  the  firelit  room, 
Swelling  and  falling ;   and  still  it  rang 
To  the  tune  of  the  song  that  the  angels  sang: 

"Now,  O  Lord,  for  Thy  tender  grace, 

For  the  deathless  love  in  Thy  pitying  face, 

For  the  pangs  Thou  hast  borne  that  we  might  not  bear, 

For  the  blessed  sense  of  Thy  constant  care — 

For  Thy  dear  sake  be  our  sins  forgot; 

Change  our  hearts,  Thou  who  changest  not! 

"Help  us,  Lord,  in  the  dark  and  cold, 

To  feed  Thy  lambs.     From  the  sheltering  fold 

Some  have  wandered  and  lost  their  way, 

Some  have  found  that  the  wolves  betray, 

Some  its  shelter  have  never  known — 

And  yet,  and  yet  they  are  all  Thine  own! 

"Now,  in  the  glow  of  the  Christmas-tide, 
For  the  sake  of  that  tree  on  which  Thou  hast  died, 
May  there  be  never  a  Christmas  tree 
But  is  blessed  with  the  love  we  would  learn  from  Thee 
For  the  poor,  and  the  weak,  and  the  lost — for  them, 
•  As  for  us,  rose  the  Star  over  Bethlehem." 


IN  THE  LIBRARY 

HERE  in  immemorial  peace 
Sorrow  finds  a  swift  surcease, 
And  Care  knits  her  "ravelled  sleeve" 
With  the  dreams  that  poets  weave. 

Here  the  vines  that  Virgil  trained 
Hang  with  clusters  purple- veined ; 
Here  the  ilex  starts  to  view 
Murmuring  songs  that  Horace  knew; 

And  that  famed  Bandusian  font, 
Crystal-clear,  as  was  its  wont, 
Bubbles  over  with  the  glee 
Of  a  lilt  to  Lalage\ 

Here,  from  its  Arcadian  wood, 
Pan,  half  seen,  half  understood, 
Pipes  his  wild,  bewitching  strain 
Till  the  Dryads  dance  again. 

Charlemagne  comes  hunting  here, 
Roland,  too,  and  Oliver; — 
Hark!  the  music  of  that  horn 
"On  Fontarabia's  echoes  borne." 

Old-world  phantoms,  dearer  far 
Than  the  new  world's  creatures  are — 
Let  the  glittering  riot  pass, 
Hie  manet  felicitas. 


TO  THE  BANDUSIAN  FOUNTAIN 

Horace,  Lib.  III.,  Ode  XIII. 

FOUNTAIN  of  Bandusia,  shimmering  crystal  clear, 
Here  is  wine  that  should  be  thine,  flowers,  too,  are  here; 
Thine  to-morrow  be  a  kid 
In  whose  budding  brow  are  hid 
Horns  that  hint  of  dalliance  and  of  battle's  shock 
All  in  vain :   poor  firstling  of  the  wanton  flock — 
His  the  sacrificial  blood 
That  shall  stain  thy  sparkling  flood. 

When  the  Dog  Star  rages,  Summer's  burning  heat 

Leaves  untouched  thy  cooling  wave  and  dewy  shadows,  sweet 

To  the  ploughman's  weary  ox 

And  the  thirst-tormented  flocks. 
One  among  the  famous  fountains  thou  shalt  be; 
Lo,  I  sing  the  rocky  cleft  beneath  the  ilex  tree 

From  whose  hollow,  rooted  deep, 

All  thy  babbling  waters  leap. 


THE  PALISADES 

NOW  bright,  now  dark,  now  swift,  now  slow 
The  lordly  Hudson  sweeps  below 
The  everlasting  hills,  that  stood 
When  Hendrik's  ship  first  ploughed  the  flood. 

High  on  each  battlemented  crest 
The  eagle  built  his  lonely  nest; 

With  loving  awe  the  Indian  viewed 

Their  immemorial  solitude. 

Prone  at  their  feet  the  ocean  tide 
Beats  vainly  at  the  vast  divide; 

Far  past  their  castellated  walls 

The  Adirondack  fountain  falls. 

Farewell,  ye  mountain  grenadiers, 

Ye,  too,  are  "food  for  powder";  years, 

Grace,  grandeur,  into  fragments  blown, 

To  make  a  vandal's  paving-stone. 


SPRING 

Q  WALLOWS  from  the  balmy  South 
O     Brought  the  roses  of  her  mouth, 
Spirits  from  the  flashing  seas 
Lent  her  eyes  their  witcheries. 

All  the  world  's  renewed  for  her, 
Youth's  perennial  pulses  stir, 

Thrilling  through  the  frozen  ground. 

Laughing  to  the  blue  profound. 

From  the  graves  of  yesteryear, 
That  hold  all  we  once  held  dear, 
From  the  vale  and  mountainside 
Where  earth's  fairest  children  died, 

Lo,  now  blossoming  to  birth, 
The  new  offspring  of  the  earth — 

Gone  the  yellow  leaf  of  wo 

In  eternal  beauty  glow. 


A  BATTLE-HYMN 

GOD  of  our  country,  with  Thy  might 
Bless  Thou  the  battle  for  the  right! 
Let  every  thundering  turret-gun 
Proclaim  Thy  righteous  will  be  done. 
Through  hail  of  shot  and  clang  of  steel, 
From  flaming  deck  and  quivering  keel, 
To  Thee  our  hearts  we  lift.     Oh,  Thou 
Who  helped  our  fathers,  help  us  now! 

To  Thee  we  dip  our  colors  low 
That  never  yet  have  bowed  to  foe ; 
Then  to  the  bullets  and  the  breeze, 
The  stern  contention  of  the  seas, 
We  fling  their  starry  folds  on  high, 
And  this  must  be  our  battle-cry: 

"  Old  Glory  flew  above  the  Maine  — 
Ten  foemen  for  each  comrade  slain!  " 

On  our  proud  banner  be  no  stain 

Of  secret  fraud,  of  sordid  gain, 
Of  struggling  patriots  betrayed, 
Of  free  men's  blood  in  lucre  paid; 
8 


A   BATTLE-HYMN 

Blue  be  its  azure  as  the  skies, 

As  rich  its  red  as  honor's  dyes, 

As  bright  its  stars  as  those  that  keep 
Their  vigil  where  our  martyrs  sleep. 

To  none  but  Thee,  oh  Lord,  we  bow, 

Nor  ever  did,  and  will  not  now; 
Nor  ever  has  our  standard  been 
Dragged  in  the  dust  by  king  or  queen. 

This  flag  we  serve  east,  west,  north,  south, 

And  now  proclaim  from  cannon's  mouth : 
' '  Let  vengeance  still  be  Thine ;  and  we 
Thy  sword  to  scour  the  western  sea." 


BOHEMIA 

SORACTE  stands  no  longer  deep 
In  snow,  but  budding  to  the  Spring 
Where  the  boy  Flaccus  lay  asleep, 

On  Vultur's  side,  the  doves  take  wing; 

Bandusia's  fountain,  crystal  clear, 
Leaps  to  the  south  wind's  soft  caress, 

And  Faunus  hails  the  youthful  year, 
Blithe  in  his  glad,  green  wilderness. 

Come,  let  us  follow  gaily  where 
The  smiling,  short,  gray  poet  trod ; 

Hark!  Aufidus  rolls  on  the  air 
And  headlong  Anio  gems  the  sod ; 

Beneath  this  ilex,  Tyndaris, 

Her  classic  beauty  all  aglow, 
Sings  to  her  lute  of  Circe's  kiss, 

A  love-song  of  the  long  ago. 

Is  this  Bohemia?     Aye,  the  moon 
Spells  her  white  magic  on  the  air, 

And  on  the  water  writes  a  rune 

That  laughs  away  old  Time  and  Care. 
10 


BOHEMIA  1 1 

Here  come  the  loves  of  other  days, 
Yea,  even  the  dead  whom  we  hold  dear; 

Here  every  poet  wears  the  bays 

And  every  warrior  shakes  the  spear. 

High  o'er  this  vale  thy  cold,  white  star, 
Oh,  Destiny,  stay  for  to-night! 
Fame,  from  thy  temple  shining  far, 
Blot  out  for  us  the  garish  light. 

To-morrow  we  11  attack  the  height, 

Brave  a  new  wound  for  every  scar, 
Wage  a  new  battle  for  the  right 

And  hitch  our  wagons  to  the  star, 

But,  oh,  to-night — we  would  forget, 

Here,  'mid  the  clusters  of  the  vine, 
That  even  this  glorious  rose  is  wet 

With  the  fond  dews  of  Auld  Lang  Syne ! 


A  LITTLE  GIRL'S  FEVER-DREAM 

(To  Pauline) 

I  DREAMED  I  was  up  there! 
And  I  saw  a  lovely  stream 
Run  bubbling  by  in  the  meadow  of  sky, 
And  it  sang  to  me  in  my  dream 

A  strange,  sweet  song  of  rest — 

I  think  I  can  hear  it  now — 
"Come,  cool  your  burning  breast 

And  bathe  your  fevered  brow; 

Wash,  and  you  shall  be  clean, 

Whiter  even  than  snow." 
I  wondered  what  it  could  mean, 

And  I  longed  so  much  to  go! 

Oh,  for  the  cooling  bliss 

Of  that  current,  crystal  clear, 
To  plunge  to  its  gentle  kiss — 

With  never  a  thought  of  fear! 

Once  more,  perhaps,  I  may 
See  that  sweet  land — and  then 

I  will  lie  and  drink  on  that  crystal  brink 
And  I  '11  never  be  thirsty  again! 


HORACE  IN  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

Book  I.,  Ode  XII. 

"  Quern  virum  aut  heroa  lyra  vel  acri." 
Ad  Theodorum  Augustum 

WHAT  man,  what  hero,  Muse  of  mine, 
What  god  shall  we,  in  notes  divine 
Of  harp  or  thrilling  flute  proclaim, 
Till  joyous  echo  sound  his  name 
In  Helicon's  umbrageous  coasts, 
On  Pindus,  or  where  Haemus  boasts 
Of  trees  that  rushed  in  eager  throng, 
Of  streams  that  paused  at  Orpheus'  song; 
Orpheus,  Calliope's  own  child, 
Whose  wondrous  art  the  winds  beguiled, 
And  even  the  listening  oaks  inclined 
To  follow  down  the  charmed  wind. 

To  Romulus,  and  Numa's  reign, 
Cato,  and  Tarquin's  haughty  strain, 
To  Regulus,  and  valorous  Scaur, 
To  unkempt  Curius,  great  in  war; 
Old  Hickory,  aye,  and  him  we  call 
Old  Abe,  best  Romans  of  them  all, 
Log-cabin  boys,  low-sprung,  high-souled — 
Sing,  Clio,  to  the  great  of  old; 

13 


14     HORACE  IN  THE    TWENTIETH  CENTURY 

To  whom,  when  Time  shall  speak  the  word, 
Columbia  adds  a  glorious  third, 
Whose  age  matures  through  storm  and  strife, 
While  Duty  crowns  the  strenuous  life. 

Scholar  uncloistered,  man  of  might, 

Statesman  and  warrior  for  the  right, 

Administrator, — this  thy  son, 

Columbia,  merits  thy  "Well  done!" 

He  brought  our  conquering  banner  home 

As  Honor  bade,  across  the  foam 

Cervera  dyed ;  by  his  decree 

A  new  Republic  gems  the  sea. 

He  keeps  Old  Glory  flying  far 

As  Honor  bids,  above  the  war 

Which  the  brown  bandit  foe  maintains 

Against  the  hand  that  broke  his  chains. 

As  a  Rough  Rider  leaps  to  meet 

The  fiery  bronco's  flying  feet, 

Bits  the  red  mouth  and  grips  the  mane, 

Bounds  on  the  beast  and  scours  the  plain, 

Subduing  force  by  force,  until 

He  wins  a  courser  to  his  will ; 

So  may  each  influence  malign 

Be  moulded  to  his  high  design, 

Each  foe  o'ercome  in  righteous  wrath, 

Each  traitor  driven  from  his  path, 

And  this  his  People's  will  decreed: 

"  Success  was  thine,  thyself  succeed." 


LINCOLN'S  BIRTHDAY 

OH  day  of  all  the  circling  year 
To  manhood  and  to  duty  dear — 
To  us  who  love  the  flag  he  saved, 
To  us  who  felt  the  pangs  he  braved, 
To  those  whose  veins  are  tingling  still 
With  the  red  war's  immortal  thrill, 
Thy  glorious  dawn  shall  ever  be 
A  lasting  pledge  that  we  are  free! 

Free  from  the  slave's  ignoble  fate, 
Free  from  base  prejudice,  and  hate, 
Free  to  fling  out  the  Stripes  and  Stars 
Full  to  the  rapturous  airs  of  Heaven, 
And  know  there  's  not  a  stain  that  mars 
The  heritage  to  free  men  given! 
Oh,  sacred  day,  our  latest  breath 
Shall  honor  Lincoln's  life  and  death. 

No  pride  nor  pomp  nor  circumstance 
Removed  him  from  the  humblest  chance ; 

To  the  plain  people  whom  he  loved 

His  great  soul  ever  faithful  proved. 
The  land  he  saved,  the  homes  he  blest, 
Delight  to  hail  him  first  and  best, 

Molded  upon  God's  noblest  plan, 

Emancipator,  martyr,  man! 


FUNSTON  OF  KANSAS 

THE  sunflowers  bloom  on  the  prairies,  afar 
From  the  blood  and  the  bluster  of  tropical  war ; 
The  green  fields  of  Kansas  smile  up  to  the  sun, 
The  water-wheels  whirr  and  the  long  furrows  run ; 
The  sunshine  of  Kansas  is  flooding  the  earth 
With  the  splendor  of  springtime,  creation's  new  birth; 
The  prairie  winds  whisper  of  ripening  sheaves, 
The  barn  swallows  chirp  'round  the  nests  in  the  leaves, 
And  Funston  of  Kansas  is  charging  the  foe 
With  a  sword  and  a  banner,  a  song  and  a  blow. 

Funston  of  Kansas,  the  right  sort  of  man, 
Right  at  the  front  when  the  fighting  began, 
Rushing  an  ambuscade,  charging  on  faith ; 
Swimming  a  river,  a  rope  in  his  teeth, 

Crossing  a  bullet-swept  bridge  on  a  lope, 
Running  a  race  up  the  death-haunted  slope ; 
Plunging  right  into  the  jungle  ahead, 
Leading  his  men  as  brave  men  should  be  led — 
Oh,  "young  Lochinvar,"  in  the  brown  khaki  vest, 
When  came  such  a  cavalier  "out  of  the  West"? 
16 


FUNSTON  OF  KANSAS  If 

Here  's  health  to  the  Funstons  of  Kansas,  the  men, 

Who  've  carried  Old  Glory  again  and  again 
Wherever  their  country  has  called  them  to  go, 
Hot  blood  for  the  flag  and  cold  steel  for  the  men 
Oh,  mother  of  heroes,  Columbia,  for  thee 

A  new  song  swells  up  from  the  isles  of  the  sea. 

The  stars  of  thy  flag  in  new  glory  shall  rise 

Through  the  battle-smoke  clouding  the  Philippine  skies, 
And  the  graves  of  thy  sons,  slain  for  thee,  shall  attest 
That  of  all  they  have  loved,  they  still  love  thee  best! 


THE  HOLIDAY  SPIRIT 

MEN  in  the  elder  times 
Baited  the  beasts  in  play, 
And  found  it  good  to  shed  men's  blood 
To  make  a  holiday. 

The  happiest  to-day, 

Since  men  and  times  have  changed, 
Is  he  whose  feet  on  errands  sweet 

Have  widest  range. 

The  wretched,  by  the  path 

That  leads  to  happiness, 
Still  stand  on  guard;  their  prayers  reward 

Those  who  help  their  distress. 

But  those  who  heedlessly 

Pursue  Life's  narrow  way 
Intent  on  self  alone,  and  pelf, 

Miss  the  soul's  holiday. 


18 


THE  "  NEW  YORK  " 

BLUE  be  the  billows  thy  proud  keel 
Shall  furrow  with  its  share  of  steel, 
And  brisk  the  breeze  and  blue  the  sky 
'Neath  which  thy  glorious  flag  shall  fly! 
Stout  be  the  hearts  that  beat  beneath 
Each  frowning  turret's  armored  sheath, 
And  may  the  God  of  Battles  pave 
With  fame  thy  path  across  the  wave! 

Faint  o'er  Lake  Erie's  shores  the  boom 
Of  Perry's  guns  salutes  the  tomb 
Where  'neath  the  waves  of  Misery  Bay 
The  Lawrence  and  Niagara  lay; 
And  while  a  keel  our  waters  rides 
Who  can  forget  Old  Ironsides'! 
But  none  or  all  of  them  could  vex 
The  calm  of  thy  tremendous  decks! 

Glide  glorious  down  thy  launching  ways 
On  this  thy  history's  day  of  days, 
Great  cruiser,  whose  baptismal  name 
Ere  it  was  thine  was  dear  to  Fame! 
Go  forth  in  all  thy  splendid  might 
To  stop  the  wrong  and  speed  the  right, 
And  may  thy  thunderous  broadside  be 
The  trumpet-call  of  Victory! 


OLD-FASHIONED  WINTER 

HAIL,  genial  glow  of  frosty  health, 
Old-fashioned  Winter,  hail! 
Here  's  welcome  to  thine  icy  wealth 
And  all  thy  glittering  mail! 

The  ozone  crackles  overhead, 

The  runnel  'neath  the  hill 
Crisps  blithely  in  its  little  bed 

And  all  at  once  is  still! 

What  though  thy  snow  be  slush  below, 
Thy  breath  be  sleet  above — 

Just  for  the  sake  of  long  ago 
Here  's  welcome  and  our  love! 


TO  BARINE 

(Horace,  Carm.  II.,  VIII). 

BARINE,  if  your  loveliness 
Were  by  one  perjury  the  less, 
If  your  white  hand  or  rosy  smile 
Betrayed  one  blemish  for  your  guile, 

I  'd  trust  you.     But  alas!  instead, 
Once  you  Ve  forsworn  your  pretty  head, 
With  charms  that  still  the  brighter  burn, 
The  heads  of  all  our  youth  you  turn. 

Fair  perjurer,  would  you  be  more  fair, 
Your  mother's  ashes  quick  forswear; 

Mock  heaven,  night's  silent  pageant,  aye, 
The  deathless  gods  enthroned  on  high. 

Venus  will  jeer,  the  Nymphs  applaud, 
While  Cupid,  laughing  at  your  fraud, 
Still  fiercely  whets  his  burning  darts 
With  blood  from  faithful  lovers'  hearts. 

And  still  young  wooers  throng  in  droves, 
New  slaves!     Not  even  your  cast-off  loves 
Can  bear  to  quit  your  faithless  door, 
Though  threatening  oft  to  come  no  more. 

The  mothers  fear  you  for  their  boys ; 

Age  dreads  you!     Cold  amid  their  joys, 
The  young  wives  shudder  lest  your  spell 
Bewitch  their  lords  who  love  them  well. 


THINGS  TO  BE  THANKFUL  FOR 

FOR  eyes  whose  vision  can  pierce  the  blue, 
Where  the  sparrowhawk  hangs  like  a  mote  in  view. 
For  ears  in  which  Nature's  harmonies  ring 
As  sweet  as  the  music  that  sounds  for  a  king. 

For  hands  that  grapple  the  nearest  task, 
And,  tearing  from  Duty's  face  the  mask 
Selfishness  set  there  long  ago, 
Show  us  the  smile  that  we  all  would  know. 

For  feet  that  are  firm  and  swift  and  strong, 
Tho'  the  way  be  rough  and  the  race  be  long. 
For  sinews  sturdy  to  stand  the  strain 
Of  a  struggle  with  weariness  and  pain. 

For  a  heart  whose  chords  are  attuned  to  love 
The  brute  below  and  the  God  above, 
That  yearns  to  infancy's  frightened  cry 
And  the  moan  of  the  beggar  passing  by. 

For  Life,  Hope's  nurse,  and  for  Hope  herself; 
For  a  modest  share  of  the  great  world's  pelf; 
For  friendship's  grasp  and  a  hearthstone  bright 
With  the  spark  that  kindles  the  darkest  night. 


HONOR-BOUND 

(Broadway,  October  31,  1896) 

DOWN  the  deep  canon  of  the  street, 
Where  continents  in  commerce  meet, 
A  thunderburst  of  color  swept, 
A  hundred  thousand  pulses  leapt, 
As  patriots  cheered  with  rapturous  cry 
Their  best  and  bravest  marching  by. 

Red,  white,  and  blue,  from  curb  to  dome, 

Old  Glory  flew,  for  God  and  home ; 

For  all  whose  loss  true  hearts  must  break, 
For  country's  and  for  honor's  sake ; 

Nor  yet  with  sword  and  booming  gun, 

As  in  the  days  of  '61. 

Flag  of  the  free,  who  can  forget 

That  once  thy  glorious  folds  were  wet 

With  freemen's  blood?     And  for  all  years 
Since  that  dread  time,  our  hopes  and  fears, 

Our  homes,  and  our  fond  hearts  shall  be 

Forever  honor-bound  to  thee! 


THE  EASTER  LILY 

EARTH,  tender,  sinful  earth,  had  trembled  at  the  shock. 
But  up  in  heaven  there  had  been  no  weeping; 
Its  awful  mystery  the  tomb  of  rock 

In  the  black  hush  before  the  dawn  was  keeping; 
Prone  on  their  shields  the  weary  guards  lay  sleeping; 

A  rose  of  Jericho,  not  far  away, 
Stirred  in  its  petals,  as  a  breeze  came  creeping 
O'er  Galilee,  to  greet  the  coming  day! 

Over  the  garden  'round  that  tomb, 

Where  never  man  had  lain, 
There  breathed  a  promise  in  the  gloom, 

A  thrill  of  rapturous  pain! 
The  winged  hosts,  with  bated  breath, 
To  see  Him  triumph  over  Death, 

From  their  high  heaven  looked  down, 
The  universe  in  ecstasy 
Waited  for  this — His  victory, 

Whose  brow  should  wear  the  crown! 

Man,  heedless  man,  slept  on;  and  one 
Wee  angel  stole  from  near  the  throne 
And  sobbed  a  vigil  by  the  stone. 
24 


THE  EASTER  LILY  2$ 

A  tiny  tear,  clear  as  a  drop  of  dew, 

Round  as  a  pearl,  rolled  down — an  angel's  tear — 

Fell  in  the  mould  and  so  was  lost  to  view 

A  moment. 
In  that  moment  all  things  new 

Became !     And  as  afar  proud  chanticleer 
To  hail  the  risen  Lord  exultant  crew, 
The  heavens  glowed,  as  their  dear  king  they  knew, 
Vanished  the  shades!     High  in  th'  empyrean's  blue 
A  mighty  paean  sounded,  and  there  grew 

Up  from  the  ground  where  that  small  tear  had  rolled 

An  Easter  lily  with  its  heart  of  gold. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SPIRIT 

NOT  the  joy  of  money-bags  and  not  the  pride  of  pelf, 
Not  the  glow  of  righteous  satisfaction  with  one's  self; 
Not  the  fervent  Amen  in  a  well- upholstered  pew; 
Nor  a  self-indulgence  in  the  excellent  and  true! 

Not  a  lofty  pity  for  vice  in  her  squalid  den ; 

Not  a  thankfulness  that  we  are  not  as  other  men — 
But  a  warming  into  action  of  the  cockles  of  the  heart 
And  a  generous  intention  to  take  some  poor  fellow's  part! 

Not  in  checks  to  buy  red  flannel  for  the  little  Hottentots, 
Nor  in  sermons  for  the  Crofters,  up  among  the  thrifty  Scots, 
Nor  in  richly  crocheted  mottoes  in  all  kinds  of  colored  wools, 
Nor  illuminated  vellums,  good  advice,  and  praying-stools! 

But  in  little  acts  of  kindness,  which  like  flowers  'neath  the 

snow 

Raise  a  little  mist  of  gratitude  to  show  the  heart  below, 
And  in  shaking  hands  sincerely  with  some  sufferer  and 

leaving 
In  his  palm,  or  hers,  a  trifle,  just  to  help  to  stop  the  grieving! 


26 


MEMORIAL  DAY,  1892 

AGAIN  they  summon  us,  the  years 
Whose  call  was  stormy  once  with  tears, 
Whose  cry  was  fierce  and  wild  with  woe — 
How  soft  their  voices  now,  and  low, 
Among  the  graves,  where  heart 's-ease  grow! 

No  bugle  stirs  the  blood  to  war, 

No  hillside  shows  the  cannon's  scar; 
The  winds  are  sweet  with  mignonette, 
O  gentle,  healing  years — and  yet 
Ye  would  not  have  our  hearts  forget ! 

Along  the  dear,  accustomed  way 
Once  more  with  wistful  feet  we  stray, 
Alone  with  our  dead  past ;  no  sounds 
From  the  rough  world  may  pass  these  bounds, 
'T  is  calm  beside  the  low,  green  mounds. 

Toil,  passion,  pride — not  yours  to  sway 

The  heart  on  this  its  holy  day ; 

Here  Grief  has  learned  to  love  her  seat, 
Here  youth  and  age  with  reverence  meet, 
Mingling  in  one  communion  sweet. 

O  years,  how  tender  is  your  touch 

To  souls  that  sorrow  overmuch! 

Deep  down  the  daisied  sod  beneath, 
The  sabre  crumbles  in  its  sheath, 
But  deathless  is  affection's  wreath! 
27 


THE  PRISONER'S  APPEAL 

AH,  pity  me,  sweet  sisters,  stricken  more 
Than  is  the  common  lot  of  womankind, 
Shut  in  an  alien  dungeon,  weeping  sore 

As  one  might  weep  who  'd  left  all  hope  behind — 
Yet  never  doubting  that  the  constant  mind 
Of  innocence  may  in  time  unblind 
Justice,  who  turned  her  back  on  me  before — 
Me,  hapless  me,  alone  and  stricken  sore! 

Ah,  pity  me,  all  ye  who  never  bore 

Another's  meed  of  sorrow;  help  unbind 

The  bonds  of  wrong  that  to  its  bleeding  core 
Cut  my  poor  heart!     See  was  the  law  designed 
The  weak  and  helpless  to  the  dust  to  grind, 
To  seal  the  doom  of  innocence  maligned, 

The  vials  of  decrepit  spleen  to  pour — 

On  hapless  me,  alone  and  stricken  sore! 

The  long  night  shrouds  my  cell,  and,  being  o'er, 
The  long  day  comes  for  which  all  night  I  pined, 

The  weary  day  dies  on  the  night's  black  shore, 
The  long  night  comes  again  upon  the  wind 
To  shadow  Hope,  sweet  Hope  that  still  enshrined 
In  my  fond  soul  your  pity  has  divined 

Ere  yet  with  aid  my  freedom  to  restore — 

Ye  succor  me,  alone  and  stricken  sore. 


28 


A  MADONNA  OF  THE  HOSPITALS 

MADONNA  of  the  proud,  pale  face, 
Beneath  the  cap  of  snow; 
A  minister  of  pitying  grace, 
You  softly  come  and  go. 
Divine  compassion's  in  the  touch 

Of  your  serene  white  hand ; 
They  love  you  much  who  suffer  much 
Along  life's  borderland. 

Madonna  of  the  hospital, 

Gowned  all  in  spotless  white ; 
However  dark  the  day  befal, 

Your  presence  makes  it  bright. 
There  's  healing  in  your  calm,  dark  eyes, 

So  grave,  so  deep,  so  true; 
Oh,  well  the  invalids  may  prize 

Their  bondage  sweet  to  you! 


29 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BLESSING 

(The  Original  Legend  of  the  Christ-Child  and  the  Chrysanthemum) 

A    LAGGARD  morn!  and  the  sombre  wood 
/~\     Shivered  to  wild  flakes  wearily  flying, 
For  Earth  was  donning  her  weird  white  hood 
Under  the  trees  where  the  snow  was  lying! 
Black  were  the  ravens  across  the  sky — 

And  chimes  from  the  castle  rang  merrily 
As  tinder  the  trees,  where  the  faggots  lay, 
An  old  man  groped — and  't  was  Xmas  day! 

High  o'er  the  vale  where  his  poor  hut  stood 

The  castle  reared  its  wonderful  towers, 
The  sun  that  should  shine  on  the  evil  and  good 

Alike,  shone  first  on  its  tropical  bowers, 
Cherished  and  kissed  them,  so  brave  and  bold — 

And  lingered  there  with,  a  golden  spark 
After  the  hunt  in  the  vale  was  cold, 

And  the  sombre  forest  was  dim  and  dark, 
Save  for  the  elves :    and  the  sinister  gnomes, 

That  in  the  Black  Forest  made  their  homes! 
30 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BLESSING  31 

"Grandfather,"  cried  the  little  ones, 

At  dawn  in  the  hut  by  the  meagre  fire — 
"There  are  no  jewels  like  the  sun's, — 

We  know — but  they  vanish  away,  and  we  tire ; 
May  not  the  Christ- Child's  goodness  bring, 

Even  to  us,  of  His  bountiful  joys 
A  real  feast,  and  a  song  to  sing, 

And  a  real  blessing  and  real  toys? " 
And  they  swallowed  their  black  bread  eagerly 

As  the  old  man  kissed  them  and  hurried  away 
With  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  they  might  not  see — 

For  the  poverty  of  their  Xmas  day! 

The  mournful  song  of  the  soughing  pines 

And  the  melody  of  the  swirling  snow 
Soothed  the  gnomes  in  their  mouldy  mines, 

And  filled  the  air  with  its  music  low; 
On  the  old  man's  ear  came  a  tiny  cry — 

Out  of  the  gloom,  where  the  forest  slept, 
And  ever  anon,  as  the  wind  moaned  by, 

It  came  again — as  an  infant  wept! 

Quick  to  the  rescue  he  hurried,  and  there, 

All  in  the  snow-drift  at  his  feet, 
Lay  a  nursling  with  golden  hair, 

And  a  smile  that  was  strange  and  divinely  sweet ; 
Came  the  thought  to  his  'wildered  sense: 

"What  if  the  Christ-Child  so  hath  come?  " 
He  snatched  the  waif  and  back  through  the  dense 

And  threatening  forest  he  sped  him  home! 


32  THE   CHRISTMAS  BLESSING 

"Grandfather,  hasten!     The  table  is  spread — 

Oh  the  grace  of  this  stranger  child! 
See,  there  's  a  glory  about  his  head, 

And  the  sunset  lingers  where  he  has  smiled! 
Tell  us,  whence  came  this  wondrous  one," 

But  the  old  man  answered  never  a  word, 
And  a  melody  died  with  the  setting  sun 

Soft  as  the  "song  of  a  secret  bird"! 

Up  from  the  graybeard's  loving  hold 

Rose  and  hovered  that  babe  in  air, 
Blessing  the  board  and  the  bread  so  cold, 

Blessing  the  little  ones  gathered  there! 
Into  the  twilight  faded  then 

The  sudden  grace  of  that  heavenly  glow — 
But  the  grandfather  hurried  forth  again 

And  followed  it  into  the  night  and  snow. 

Out  from  the  forest  vast  and  grim 

Over  the  drift  whence  the  Christ-Child  s  prang, 
Lo!  the  strains  of  a  heavenly  hymn, 

The  thrilling  music  the  shepherds  sang — 
The  Christmas  anthem!     On  he  sped 

But  sudden  paused  in  a  new  surprise, 
Blooming  there  in  the  Child's  snow  bed 

Grew  wondrous  flowers  before  his  eyes! 

"Christ's  Anthems! "     As  he  kneels  and  prays, 
The  hymns  die  out  in  the  peaceful  night. 


THE   CHRISTMAS  BLESSING  33 

How  his  old  face  in  their  golden  blaze 
Shines  as  he  plucks  the  petals  of  light! 

There  were  songs  and  a  feast  in  the  castle  high 
On  the  cliffs;   but  the  faggot-gleaner's  hearth 

Glowed  with  the  blessings  of  the  sky — 
Love  and  Mercy  and  "Peace  on  Earth." 


THE  OLD  FLAG  AGAIN 

(March  4,  1897) 

FLING  out  her  glorious  folds  again, 
Her  Stripes  and  Stars  exalt, 
Until  before  the  eyes  of  men 

She  glows  from  heaven's  blue  vault 
Once  more  the  banner  of  the  free, 

In  deed,  as  well  as  name ; 
And  cursed  let  the  craven  be 
Who  furls  our  flag  in  shame ! 

Fling  out  her  folds !     Columbia  knows 

No  dastards  when  the  cry 
Of  her  own  sons,  'neath  alien  guns 

Imprisoned,  sounds  hard  by. 
Fling  out  her  folds!     Let  freemen  feel 

They  're  not  a  living  lie, 
That  rifled  guns  and  ships  of  steel 

Protect  them  where  they  fly. 

There  never  was,  nor  shall  there  be 

While  winds  and  waters  flow 
A  man,  a  State,  by  land  or  sea, 

To  lay  their  honor  low! 
And  most  we  love  their  starry  pride 

When  we  remember  how 
To  keep  them  stainless  freemen  died : 

They  shall  be  stainless  now! 

34 


COBBLE  BLOSSOMS 

DEEP  in  its  moss  of  golden  green, 
Where  sunlight  pranked  the  laughing  scene, 
And  every  little  wandering  wind 
Found  ripples  cool  and  flowerets  kind, 
The  violet's  and  the  rose's  breath 
Have  faded  softly  out  to  death. 

The  daisy  and  the  goldenrod 

Have  withered  gently  to  the  sod, 

Above  which,  when  the  butterfly 

In  Summer's  livery  floated  by, 

They  shone  in  beauty ;  damp  and  cold 

November  breathed  above  their  mould! 

The  wild  flowers  of  the  field  and  wood 
Will  bloom  again,  for  God  is  good. 
But  what  of  man?     The  flowers  that  lie 
Here  in  the  streets,  shall  they,  too,  die — 
Starved,  ragged,  prematurely  old — 
Of  hunger  and  neglect  and  cold? 


35 


FREE  CUBA 

HERE  'S  a  heart  for  thy  heart  and  a  prayer  for  thy  prayer, 
And  a  nation  of  freemen  thy  perils  to  share ; 
Here  's  joy  for  the  news  of  thy  victories  won; 
Now  let  thy  machetes  flash  red  to  the  sun! 
Here  's  a  hand  for  thy  hands,  and  a  shout  of  acclaim 
For  the  hour  that  free  Cuba  has  won  the  proud  name. 
Oh,  island  of  beauty,  oh,  gem  of  the  sea, 
May  the  stars  in  their  courses  do  battle  for  thee ! 

The  women  whose  love  is  the  light  of  our  land, 

The  men  who  for  freedom  forever  will  stand, 
The  children  whose  sympathy  quickens  to  see 
A  serf  in  our  seas  where  a  free  State  should  be ; 

The  bone  and  the  sinew,  the  brain  and  the  heart 

Of  our  glorious  country  have  taken  thy  part, 
Though  doubter  and  dastard  sit  quibbling  afar 
On  the  rights  of  a  tyrant,  the  court  rules  of  war. 

Thy  sisters  in  bondage  have  long  years  ago 
Won  freedom,  O  Cuba,  now  strike  the  last  blow! 

Adown  the  long  coast  from  the  Lakes  to  the  Horn 

A  continent  waits  for  thy  star  to  be  born ; 
And  the  winds  of  the  forest,  the  tides  of  the  main 
Will  bear  the  glad  tidings  to  mountain  and  plain, 

O  Cuba,  fair  Cuba,  free  Cuba  to  be, 

That  the  banner  of  liberty  floats  over  thee ! 


SOME  DISHONORED  DIVINITIES 
I.     VACUITY: 

THERE  'S  a  wild  spirit  in  the  bowls  that  brim; 
But  over  the  spent  chalice  rests  a  spell 
Of  loveliness ;  't  is  to  the  empty  shell 

Chaos  calls  soft  through  aether's  ocean  dim. 

II.     HATE: 

How  dark  and  hot  her  blood  is !     Hot  it  leaps 
To  sullen  frenzy  at  a  word,  a  name — 
Blotting  out  friendship,  honor,  love,  and  fame, 

As  one  black  cloud  whelms  over  moonlit  deeps! 

III.     TO  HASHISCH: 

Hail,  dream  elixir,  Babylon's  great  king, 
Pillowed  on  beauty's  bosom,  shod  with  gold — 
Once  let  thy  torch  inflame  man's  reason  cold- 
Is  as  a  moth  that  's  like  to  burn  his  wing! 

IV.     ENVY: 

Best  spur  to  effort,  foe  to  pale  ennui, 
Ambition  were  an  orphan,  and  sweet  Hope 
A  ghost  still  lingering  on  Avernus'  slope, 

If  this  dull,  gray  old  world  had  none  of  thee! 

37 


448033 


38  SOME  DISHONORED  DIVINITIES 

V.     OBLIVION: 

Sweet  lotos-orbed,  velvet- footed  maid, 
That  slippest  o'er  the  wrinkled  ocean's  brim, 
Garlanded  with  blue  flowers  of  distance  dim — 

Is  death  the  passport  to  thine  Isles  of  Shade? 

VI.     WEARINESS: 

Oh,  the  long,  slow  delight  of  rest  begun — 
Of  sinews  all  unbending,  like  the  bow's 
That  from  her  neck  at  dawn  Diana  throws 

Forgetting  now  even  Endymion! 


AN  APRIL  DAWN 

WHEN  dawn  unbars  the  pale  gray  gates 
At  which  an  April  morning  waits, 
The  west  wind  pauses,  passing  by, 
To  strew  cloud  blossoms  in  the  sky, 
And,  perched  upon  a  lonely  pine, 
A  robin  sings  of  auld  lang  syne. 

The  swift,  wild  horses  of  the  sea 
Toss  their  white  manes  in  careless  glee 
Out  on  the  bar,  where  all  the  night 
They  pawed,  impatient  for  the  light; 
And,  save  their  long  and  rhythmic  tread, 
Naught  breaks  the  bird  song's  tiny  thread. 

Full  on  the  background  of  the  dawn 
The  stately  pine's  green  crest  is  drawn, 
In  outlines  bold  and  dark,  but  swift 
As  rough  waves  clash,  or  soft  clouds  lift, 
The  picture  is  forgot — so  shrill, 
So  sweet,  the  robin's  morning  trill! 

What  is  it  pictures  to  thine  eye, 

Afar,  an  orchard's  greenery, 

Below  an  old  house,  gabled  low, 

Around  which  spring  flowers  love  to  grow 

Rare  bird,  whose  earliest  melody 

Echoes  the  sadness  of  good-by! 


39 


THE  LADY  OF  DREAMS 

HER  voice  comes  along  the  wind 
That  falls  at  eve  with  fitful  sighs, 
Until  I  think  I  must  be  blind 

Not  to  look  up  into  her  eyes; 
Through  all  my  veins  the  warm  blood  starts, 

And  then,  and  then — alas,  I  know 
Not  all  Dan  Cupid's  magic  arts 
Could  bring  her  from  the  long  ago! 

I  hear  the  slipper  on  the  stair, 

My  heart  beats,  ah,  once  more  "possest" — 
I  turn,  to  greet  my  lady  fair, 

A  pansy  at  her  snowy  breast, 
A  smile  upon  her  warm  red  lips 

Such  as  the  moon  smiles  on  the  sea — 
And  oh,  the  sight  of  her  'd  eclipse 

The  sun  of  Austerlitz  for  me! 

It  's  odd,  too,  how  the  merest  stir 
Of  young  leaves  in  an  idle  breeze 

Brings,  out  of  nothing,  thoughts  of  her, 
And  how  I  hear  among  the  trees 
40 


THE  LADY  OF  DREAMS  41 

The  rustle  of  her  skirts!     No  sound 

Since  Pan  wooed  Syrinx  sets  the  air 
So  softly  whispering  to  the  ground 

As  does  her  fancied  footfall  there! 

I  '11  never  meet  her  face  to  face, 

My  sweetheart  with  the  breast  of  snow! 
I  may  but  conjure  up  her  grace 

And  dream  I  loved  her — long  ago ; 
The  sweetness  of  that  lovelit  dream 

Alas,  must  still  my  soul's  fond  strife, 
For,  sad  and  strange  as  it  may  seem, 

I  never  saw  her  in  my  life ! 


SKIPPER  BROWN  EYES 
THE  TWILIGHT  TALE  OF  HER  VOYAGE  TO  SLUMBERLAND 

(To  Emilie) 

SHE  sails  away  on  the  sea  of  dreams, 
This  little  skipper  with  eyes  of  brown, 
As  the  firefly's  torch  in  the  twilight  gleams, 

And  the  garish  sun  goes  down ; 
Her  bark  floats  over  the  grimy  town 
To  Slumberland  and  its  silver  sea ; 
The  spotless  folds  of  her  slumber  gown 
Are  no  whit  fairer  than  she. 

There  are  angel  birds  in  the  warm,  still  air, 

And  the  skipper  laughs  with  her  eyes  of  brown, 
As  they  sing  to  her  old  songs,  sweet  and  rare, 

While  her  bark  billows  up  and  down ; 
They  sing  of  a  prince  of  high  renown, 

And  a  princess  ever  so  young  and  fair; 
But  where  is  the  princess  had  ever  a  crown 

Like  the  crown  of  her  soft  brown  hair? 

Cometh  a  storm  o'er  the  silver  sea, 
That  ebbs  on  the  dreamer's  land, 
42 


SKIPPER  BROWN  EYES  43 

And  the  angel  birds  fade  out  to  the  lee 

Of  this  singular  slumber-strand ; 
Is  there  a  harbor  by  angels  planned, 

From  all  storms,  whatever  they  be, 
From  the  wicked  fairies  of  Slumberland 

And  the  waves  in  its  silver  sea? 

Up,  like  a  flash,  comes  the  little  brown  head, 

And  the  brown  eyes  only  see 
A  billowy  blanket  of  silk  outspread 

On  an  ocean  of  dimity ; 
But  it  's  fearlessly  the  skipper  will  flee, 

With  a  soft  little  barefoot  tread, 
By  the  chart  she  learned  on'her  bended  knee, 

To  the  haven  of  mother's  bed. 


JUNE 

WHEN  June  unbinds  her  rosy  zone 
And  fills  the  woods  with  rapture, 
The  poet  knows  his  heart  is  gone — 

And  glories  in  the  capture! 
The  dumb  world  watches  as  she  goes, 

Her  beauty  sets  it  crazy — 
Now  pausing  here  to  pick  a  rose, 
And  there  to  drop  a  daisy! 

Her  eyes  are  deep  as  heaven's  blue, 

Now  languishing,  now  laughing; 
Now  whispering:  Oh,  be  true,  be  true — 

And  now  divinely  chaffing! 
The  dimple  in  her  milk-white  chin, 

So  she  but  smile,  discovers 
A  pit  they  all  might  tumble  in 

To  be  done  for — her  lovers! 

The  amorous  branches,  overbold, 
Catch  at  her  as  she  passes, 

Her  tender  footstep  thrills  the  wold 
And  stirs  the  springing  grasses; 

44 


JUNE  45 

The  birds,  with  softly  quivering  wings, 

Fly  down  on  either  shoulder: 
No  man  may  hear  the  song  she  sings, 

No  impious  eye  behold  her! 

But  by  the  laughter  of  the  brook, 

The  fragrance  of  the  blossom, 
We  think  we  know  the  way  she  took 

And  how  she  leaped  across  'em; 
We  hear  her  trailing  robe — so  sweet 

Its  scent  on  hill  and  hollow, 
We  long  to  see  her  flying  feet 

And  cannot  choose  but  follow! 


ERICSSON'S  RETURN 

f^  RE  AT  Norseland,  now  all  hail! 

V_J     Thou  Viking-mother  pale 

Of  heroes,  on  whose  birth 

The  light  not  born  of  earth 
Gleams  from  the  shrouded  pole ;   Valhalla  holds  his  soul. 

And  now  his  body  speed  we  home 

In  conqueror's  pomp  across  the  foam ; 
No  blood-stained  billows  mark  the  progress  of  his  bark, 

But  swift  and  silent  o'er  the  sea 

His  war- ship  bears  him  back  to  thee ! 

A  thousand  years  ago 
Thy  sons  'gainst  wind  and  floe 
Found  out  our  western  land; 

Foam-flecked,  their  venturous  sail  flew  on  thro'  night  and  gale, 
And  theirs  the  furrow  free, 
Though  lurked  in  every  sea 
The  iceberg's  mailed  hand! 

Not  so  sailed  he  who  homeward  comes 
To-day  in  state ;  no  beat  of  drums 

Nor  glint  of  spears,  nor  arrows'  hail,  nor  bloody  sword,  nor 
dinted  in  ail 

46 


ERICSSON'S  RETURN  47 

Attest  his  triumphs!     From  the  stars 
Upon  the  flag  that  floats  above  him, 
Her  victories,  more  renowned  than  war's. 
Peace  heralds,  and  a  Nation  love  him! 

As  from  Valhalla's  cloud-kissed  dome 
The  shades  of  heroes  hail  thee  home 
We  cry:  God  help  thee,  glorious  Swede 
Who  helped  us  in  our  hour  of  need! 


THE  NEW  ALL  SOULS'  DAY 

DEAR  tmforgotten  dead,  whose  day 
Comes  once  more  with  the  circling  year, 
With  each  new  touch  of  tender  May 
A  tenderer  memory  holds  you  dear. 

Broad  as  the  vault  of  heaven's  blue 
Wells  this  new  sympathy,  and  sweet 

As  are  the  drops  of  pity's  dew 

Come  footfalls  still  of  reverend  feet. 

Fond  pilgrimage!     From  East  and  West 
And  North  and  South,  each  to  his  own, 

With  love  for  those  we  love  the  best 
And  tears  for  those  who  left  us  lone! 

Columbia  loves  her  soldier  sons 

Who  died  that  she  might  live ;  each  grave 
Grows  dearer  as  their  echoing  guns 

Boom  faint  o'er  fields  they  fought  to  save! 

And  so,  with  memories  fond,  and  flowers 

A  grateful  nation's  grief  has  led 
All  chastened  hearts  these  sacred  hours 

To  dedicate  to  their  dear  dead! 


48 


IN  MEMORIAM 

J.  R.  B. 

HUSHED  are  now  the  tender  sighs 
In  the  silence  sweet  of  rest, 
Gone  the  question  from  the  eyes, 

And  the  fever  from  the  breast — 
Where  white  violet  and  rose 

Fading,  too,  in  all  their  charms, 
Find  their  loveliest  repose 
Nestling  in  my  baby's  arms. 

On  the  brow  so  smooth  and  white 

Dawns  the  beauty  of  a  day 
Hidden  still  from  mortal  sight 

That  shall  shine  for  him  alwav ; 
Blessing  now  his  sweet  release, 

Folded  by  a  higher  will, 
Here  the  dimpled  hands  at  peace, 

Show  the  angels'  kisses  still! 


49 


THE  CHRIST-MASS  TREE 

A  CEDAR  grew  in  Lebanon, 
That  goodly  mount  beside  the  sea, 
And  breathed  out  to  the  morning  sun 

Her  balmy  odors,  faint  yet  free; 
The  air  was  fine  as  silver  spun, 

The  breeze  blew  aye  from  Calvary. 

Down  in  the  valleys,  far  below, 
The  mulberry  and  bearded  grain 

And  the  gray  olive  loved  to  grow, 
Betwixt  the  mountain  and  the  main; 

The  cedar  towered  on  high;  her  slow, 
Sweet  fragrance  filled  the  air  with  pain. 

It  was  on  Calvary  there  grew 

That  tree  from  whose  accursed  bough 
(Or  was  it  cedar,  cypress,  yew, — 

It  matters  not,  we  love  it  now) 
A  cruel  hand  would  one  day  hew 

The  cross  on  which  He  laid  His  brow. 

And,  lo!  the  thorn  had  leagues  afar 

With  brooding  sadness  filled  the  breeze 
50 


THE   CHRIST-MASS   TREE  51 

And  thrilled  to  greet  the  herald  star, 
That  marked  it  lone  among  the  trees — 

And  so,  fond  sinners  that  we  are, 
May  we,  too,  share  these  memories! 

Are  there  no  wanderers  by  the  way, 

No  little  ones  with  bleeding  feet, 
No  fainting  souls  that  Hope  might  stay, 

No  hungry  hearts  that  Love  might  greet? 
Blow,  breeze  from  Calv'ry,  so  we  may 

Aye  find  the  Master's  labor  sweet ! 

Sweet  pain  that  thrills  the  world  with  bliss, 

Fond  agony,  that  ransomed  sin, 
Whene'er  the  winds  of  Heaven  kiss 

The  hills  that  shut  the  blue  seas  in, 
May  we,  too,  deem  no  pang  amiss, 

If  to  His  love  some  soul  we  win! 


EASTER 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN  REDBREAST 

HUSHED  were  the  waves  that  through  the  long 
night  sighing 

Had  flung  themselves  on  the  complaining  shore ; 
In  the  dark  west  the  restless  winds  were  dying, 
For  winds  must  rave  and  die,  forevermore. 

Far  in  the  east,  where  foolish,  fond  Tithonus 

Once  more  released  from  his  unwilling  arms 
The  roseate  Dawn — for  he  has  never  known  us 

More  Modern  mortals  who  adore  her  charms — 
There  rose  and  fainted  on  the  air,  that  trembled 

With  prescience  of  a  Day, — of  days  the  best, 
The  golden  song  of  spirits,  half  dissembled, 

Half  swelling  in  a  melody  confest, 

By  all  the  air  and  sea  forever  blest. 

Under  their  caps  of  snow  the  mountains  quivered 
And  shook  with  joy  at  that  soft,  swelling  strain; 

The  brooks,  in  their  half-frozen  runnels,  shivered, 
Then  bounded  on  to  the  expectant  main ; 
52 


EASTER  53 

The  silvery  clouds  that  hung 

Where  those  sweet  notes  were  sung 
Vibrated  in  a  symphony  divine. 

The  shadows  'gan  to  flee 

Like  ghosts  across  the  sea, 
And  one  wee  bird,  perched  on  a  lonely  pine, 
Took  up  the  theme  and  sang  this  song  of  mine: 

Oh,  mother  dear,  Jerusalem, 

My  heart  goes  out  to  thee ! 
The  Nations  pass  and  fail;  to  them 
Thou  art  not  even  Bethelehem! 
And  yet,  to  me,  thou  art  the  gem 

That  sets  His  memory! 

Prone  'gainst  the  Eastern  sky  He  hung 

On  an  accursed  tree ; 
A  thief  on  either  side  Him  swung, 
While  soldiers  on  His  mantle  flung 
Their  dice,  and  Nature's  heart  was  wrung 

Such  fearful  sights  to  see! 

Oh,  cruel  cross!  oh,  bleeding  side! 

Oh,  brow  of  agony! 

See,  nails  His  poor  white  hands  divide, 
And  ruddy  drops  pour  in  a  tide! 
While  men,  for  whom  He  even  died, 

Doubt  still  if  it  be  He! 


54  EASTER 

Oh,  stars  and  night  and  woe  divine, 

'T  was  more  than  I  could  bear! 
My  own  breast  for  each  cruel  tine 
Bled,  and  I  would  His  wounds  were  mine, 
And  mine  the  veins  that  poured  that  wine 
Of  blood  beyond  compare ! 

Oh,  agony!  oh,  cursed  tree! 

Oh,  Mary's  mother- wails ! 
In  vain  I  fluttered  there  to  see 
If  but  my  beak  could  set  Him  free : 
His  torture  was  too  strong  for  me — 

I  could  not  draw  the  nails! 

Yet  here  upon  my  breast  I  wear 

Thy  seal,  oh  Blood  of  God! 
Here  the  blest  fount,  that  dyed  the  air 
And  crimsoned  all  the  world  so  fair, 
Since  He  has  risen,  I  too  may  share 

With  those  for  whom  it  flowed! 


THE  MIDWINTER  GIRL 

O  RAVE  midwinter  roses 
D     Bloom  red  in  her  cheeks, 
Where  the  wind's  kiss  discloses 
The  posies  he  seeks. 

There  's  a  fine  faery  clangor, 

A  wedding-bell  tone, 
All  about  her ;  her  languor 

Of  lounging  is  flown. 

' '  Incedit  regina  I ' ' 

No  queen  to  her  throne 

Walks  with  majesty  finer, 
Yet  all  of  her  own! 

Oh,  where  in  all  nature 

Is  beauty  like  hers — 
A  flower-fair  creature 

So  bonny  'mid  furs! 


55 


AN  INVOCATION  TO  MARCH 

MONTH  the  almanacs  style  vernal, 
Meteorologic  fraud, 
By  thy  fits  and  starts  infernal, 
By  thy  blizzards  blown  abroad ; 

By  the  hearts  thy  conduct  's  frozen 
And  then  broken  into  pieces, 

By  the  symbols  thou  hast  chosen — 
Lion's  claws  and  lambkin's  fleeces; 

By  thy  wrecks  upon  old  ocean, 
By  the  flowrets  thou  hast  frosted, 

By  thy  bluster  and  commotion, 
By  our  patience  long  exhausted; 

By  thy  windy,  wintry,  wilful, 

Wanton  waste  of  worthless  weather, 

From  our  spring,  already  chillful, 
Vamoose — get  out  altogether! 


A  LETTER  TO  MY  WIFE 

INTO  the  ranks  of  the  Saracen  horde, 
Marking  the  way  for  his  flashing  sword; 
Into  the  maze  of  the  fight  and  the  dance — 

Of  the  steely  sparks  from  the  smitten  lance ; 
Into  the  rush  where  the  Arab  steed 

Shivered  to  feel  his  rider  bleed ; 
Into  the  thick  of  the  fray  he  cast 

With  a  loving  look,  if,  so  be,  his  last, 
With  a  clinging  look  that  not  death  might  loose, 

The  Douglas  cast  the  Heart  of  the  Bruce! 

Into  the  battles  of  life  he  wore, 

Into  the  din  of  the  fight  he  bore, 
Ever  close  to  his  faithful  breast, 

The  heart  of  hearts  that  he  loved  the  best ! 
And  the  heathen  raged,  and  the  sirens  sang, 

And  the  song  of  the  sword  on  his  armour  rang, 
And  the  cynics  laughed  that  he  wore  that  charm, 

To  nerve  for  the  battle  his  good  right  arm! 
For  there  's  never  a  charm  in  their  smoothest  art 

Nor  a  shield  to  scatter  their  keenest  dart 
Like  the  charm  of  the  shield  of  the  loving  heart! 

57 


58  A   LETTEK    TO  MY   WIFE 

Into  the  whirl  of  the  busy  town 

Where  the  lord  of  to-day  is  the  morrow's  clown, 
And  lips  that  are  false  may  be  warm  and  red, 

And  a  halo  may  shine  'round  a  wanton's  head; 
Where  smiles  are  all  that  a  friend  may  give 

And  love  is  but  water  that  's  poured  in  a  sieve, 
There  's  a  charm  I  wear  like  the  Heart  of  the  Bruce, 

In  a  clasp  of  love  that  no  other  may  loose, 
A  heart  bound  fast  by  a  golden  chain 

To  my  own,  and  I  long  with  a  tender  pain 
To  be  with  you,  my  dearest,  at  home  again! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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FS         roco.cl:- 

1104     rook  treasures 
B63b      of  I'aecenas, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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B63b 


